One Christmas Eve, After Midnight
by teecrushfic
Summary: Albus and Hugo inadvertently find a Christmas story they were never meant to see.


"Hugo, my man, you are an ANIMAL," sighed Albus, leaning back on the blanket, panting. "For someone who looks so bloody innocent, you are a filthy, filthy boy." He grinned and looked over at his cousin, who was panting too, red hair curling damply against his neck. "Who knew?"

"I know, right?" Hugo grinned back, and let out a breath as he laid beside Albus, resting his head on Albus' shoulder, then muttering. "What the fuck's under here? Get up."

Both boys sat and Hugo rummaged around till he found the offending object; a loose floorboard, clumsily held down by a couple of bent nails. "Great – we're lucky we didn't get stabbed and need tetanus shots," grumbled Hugo. "I can see it now. "Mum, Al and I both got poked with a rusty nail."

He imitated a worried Hermione. "Hugo, love, how did THAT happen?"

"Oh, well, I was poking _Albu_s and …"

Hugo grinned and moved to pull up the floorboard, pulling out a battered-looking leather journal, thick with ink, wrapped with a band. He handed it to Albus and re-arranged the transfigured blanket so they could lay comfortably.

Albus held the book up to the single light they had burning and saw the initials 'HP' scratched into the binding. "This belongs to Dad, unless you know anyone else around with those initials," he noted, then tugged experimentally at the band, which was old, and had seen better days. It gave with surprising ease, and the book fell open naturally to the middle.

The book had obviously gotten wet: certain places on the pages were spattered and had run, the ink smeared, and some of the pages were creased along the edges. Albus felt rather like a sneak, but scanned the open page – then started to thumb through the first half of the book. "Hu, this is Dad's journal, diary, what have you, from his time at Hogwarts; it looks like he wrote about a lot of stuff, like, personal stuff, and HIM and love and … whoa. Lots of stuff."

He looked at Hugo. "Why would he keep it up here, hidden? The people at the Prophet would die to have this kind of stuff – they've been after him to write an autobiography forever! Hell, this is the whole thing, right here!"

Hugo looked over Albus' shoulder. "Guess he didn't want anyone to find it – oddly enough, our parents had lives once, and some stuff might be private."

Albus snorted. "Please – he's the Boy Who Lived, and all that shit. What could be private?"

He would soon find out – and wish, so much, that he hadn't.

The party swirled around Harry, who was, as they said, in his cups, and barely noticed. He saw Ginny dance by with Neville, and in the corner, Luna was talking George's remaining ear off; his brother in law didn't seem to mind, but Harry suspected he was paying more attention to Luna's cleavage than her words. He couldn't blame him; talk about 'twins!'

He wandered through the downstairs, smiling benignly, and putting away the punch like an automaton; he did a pretty good job of not noticing much at such affairs, and over the years had found that drinking heavily was a good way to dull most things. Ginny would bitch at him later, but until he fell into something – the Christmas tree was a favorite target - or insulted a guest, she would leave him be. It was a good arrangement. And so far, he'd managed to avoid the one thing that was hardest to bear – mistletoe.

Harry had nothing against mistletoe, per se – it was more that he seemed to have an innate talent for catching a certain someone under said mistletoe. And he was never alone; always, paired with the once bright-red, now gone a bit rusty, was the chestnut-brown head of curls, close, their lips pressed together – and Harry would watch, forced, despite the alcohol, to remember.

Drinking was _supposed_ to make you forget.

It was after that, always, that he drank too much, talked too loudly, was too clumsy, and would invariably cause some household disaster or the other. And later, after the guests had left, after he'd been scolded, after Ginny had stomped off to bed alone, Harry would go into the frozen back garden, and sit down hard on the cold stone wall, his head in his hands, willing the image away.

"Hugo … fuck, read this!"

Albus had read this passage in the journal several times now, each time figuring that somehow, it wouldn't be what he thought he was reading, but it was, no way around it.

He handed the battered book to Hugo, and lit a cigarette, rubbing his face. He wished he and Hugo had thought to smuggle some booze upstairs too, but they'd been horny and anxious and planning had fallen by the wayside – which was why they were squished together on a hastily transfigured handkerchief-turned-blanket, and not a nice mattress or whatnot.

Albus took a deep drag of his cigarette and exhaled towards the eaves, then watched Hugo read. And read again, and again, his ears turning as red as his hair – which was saying a lot. Albus suspected he'd had the same look on his face moments ago, and when Hugo set the journal down, he passed him the cigarette and pulled his legs up, resting his chin on his knees.

"They were _lovers,_" Hugo's voice was wondering, his expression stunned. "My dad – and your dad. For years, Al. Right under my Mum's nose. They were … they did everything. Everything two people can do, and she never knew. Doesn't know, still."

He turned his head to look at Albus. "How can she not know? How could they have done that? How can they even look at each other today?"

Albus shrugged and took the cigarette back, finishing it. "I don't know. I really don't know. And what about Mum? She can't know either, can she? I mean, Dad and her brother, for fuck's sakes!"

Hugo shook his head, then flopped backwards, staring at the ceiling.

The night was thankfully over, or so Harry hoped; the house was emptying of Weasleys, Longbottoms, Thomases, Finnigans and the odd Lovegood; the _very_ odd Lovegood. She had kissed his cheek goodbye, and patted his hand knowingly. Harry was never sure exactly what it is that Luna knew, but he smiled, kissed her in return, and watched her wonderful ass wobble away on the ridiculous high heels she loved. The sight was a Christmas gift in itself.

He hadn't embarrassed himself tonight, but even better, he'd missed mistletoe altogether, which was no mean feat, given that Ginny liked to hang the damn stuff everywhere, and one never knew where they'd find themselves cornered, but so far, so good – and the night was nearly over.

Maybe tonight would break the curse – maybe this Christmas Eve would be the night that he wouldn't see the sight that brought back memories he couldn't suppress, the memories that broke his heart. Maybe.

He spoke with Ginny, who was very pleased that he'd managed to be respectable all night, and rewarded him with a kiss and a wink, a promise that Santa would be visiting him this night; he smiled back at her, returned the kiss, and patted her ass fondly as she went about, picking up glasses, tossing napkins and emptying ashtrays. He himself put away the booze, set the punch bowl in the sink for later, and wrapped up some leftovers, simple things that kept him out of trouble.

Off-duty, Harry stepped out onto the back porch for his own last smoke of the evening, and in the light of the match, saw the flicker of red. His eyes followed the still-bright trail, coming to rest on the red and brown heads close together, the lips pressed against each other, hands cupping each other's cheeks in the cold of the garden as they paused on their way home.

Harry stared until he couldn't anymore, and turned away, sick.

So close.

Back inside, he was shutting off the lights – electric lights, Wizarding ways be damned – when he heard a step behind him and turned.

Albus was standing behind him, holding a book – no ordinary book, but one worn, much-thumbed, much-read over, cried over – and it was open to a page that Harry knew all too well. He met Albus' eyes, his own green reflected back at him, then silently held out his hand for the book.

He didn't know what he expected; incredulity, condemnation, anger … but there was none of that. Instead, Albus moved close and wrapped his arms around his father and hugged him tight.

Surprised, Harry hugged his son back, pressing his face into the only slightly more tamed mane of hair than his own, and sighed. "You were in the attic with Hugo again, huh?"

Now it was Albus' turn to be surprised as he pulled back and looked at him. "You know? Knew?"

Harry gave him a rueful smile. "Like father, like son, I guess. " He looked down at the book. "So now you know, too – those bloody Weasley men are hard to resist." He closed the book and set it down on the kitchen table, then fished out the last of the punch, giving Albus a cup, and himself one. "Got the dregs here – all the alcohol sinks to the bottom – good stuff."

Albus grinned. "Excellent."

Harry sat down at the table, Albus taking the seat across from him. "I guess I'd ask if you were mad, but after reading that …"

Harry regarded him over the rim of the cup. "Ron wasn't my cousin, wasn't even my brother in law then – but no. When I can safely gaze through the walls of my glass house, I'll think about chucking a stone. Just … be careful, Albus, is all I can say. It can seem like a clandestine kiss, or grope, a quick encounter in a coat closet, but – it can so quickly turn into more. Much more. And I would never, ever, want to see your heart get broken. I would wish anything in the world but that."

"Like yours did."

"Like mine _is_, still, to this day." Harry's voice was low, and he realized that even after all these years, he wasn't ready to talk about it; all he could do was warn his son against making the same mistake he had. "Just remember, Alby, that for the Weasley men, duty comes first. Family comes first. Love is second, and sometimes, love doesn't place in the race at all. And once they make that choice, they learn to live with it, and never waver again."

He stood and collected their cups, then pulled Albus up to kiss his forehead. "Bed, or else Santa won't stop by and leave you oh, say, a new racing broom, or gloves or …" He smiled to see Albus' eyes light up and the smile returned. "Now go."

"All right then – I love you, Dad. And …" Albus paused, then shook his head. "I'm sorry. I am."

"So am I. But I'm not sorry I loved him, and I'm not sorry that I made my own choice, that I married your Mum, had you, Jamie and Lils. I've never been sorry for that, nor will I ever be."

Albus gave him one more sympathetic look, and nod, and then was gone, leaving Harry and his book of memories alone.

"Fuck, Ron," whispered Harry, "When you do that I … ohh God."

He closed his eyes and pushed hard against Ron's hand, which was big, clumsy and absolutely perfect, and damn, it never felt better than when it was rubbing him through the clinging fabric of his Quidditch trousers after a big win. The adrenaline already coursing through his veins, combined with rough squeezes and tugs, Ron's lips pressed against his, or hot breath on his ear was an unbeatable combination, and it wouldn't take more than a few moments for Harry to pin Ron to the wall and rut helplessly against him, the friction building till they both came, soaking their trousers and leaving them both trembling,

He rested his head against Ron's shoulder, taking deep breaths, unable to find words to tell Ron what he meant to him, counting on Ron to somehow bknow/b without Harry having to tell him. He had to know. Had to.

"Ron," he whispered, feeling Ron's fingers rubbing the back of his neck, up underneath the wet tendrils of hair that lay plastered to his skin. "Ron, I love you."

No answer to that, just another soft kiss on his temple, then shockingly soft lips brushing his ear, a hot tongue licking the shell, and Harry would find himself hardening again, and reaching for Ron, pulling him tight against him, needing the heat and safety Ron provided.

In his world, Ron was the only thing that he could count on, the only person who could make him feel that somehow, things were going to be all right, that there was a life out there for him. And once Harry had realized that that possibility existed, that he might have a future, then Ron had been part of it. In fact, that future centered baroundb Ron, and his love.

Cause of course Ron loved him back, even if he never said it aloud. He must love him, to touch Harry the way he did, to hold him at night, to stare into his eyes with his own hot ones when they were stealing the only moments together they could.

He must. /i

Until he didn't.

Until he told him he was marrying Hermione, that he loved her, and that he and Harry could never be together again. Until he took the fragile peace Harry had created for himself and shattered it, and Harry, in the process.

Ron had managed to do what the Dark Lord couldn't – he'd managed to destroy Harry Potter.

On the outside, Harry still looked the same, if you didn't look too hard, or if you didn't stare too long into his eyes. If you didn't catch his expression when something reminded him of Ron.

He stood up there with his best friend and once-lover as he pledged his life and his love to his other best friend, and felt like dying. He danced with Hermione and looked down into her sparkling eyes, and wished that he had never left that Forest. He made the toast at the wedding reception with hands that shook.

It had taken all Harry had to force himself into a life that Ron's kisses weren't a part of, where he didn't crave the particular rough, almost careless touch that inexplicably became more gentle than he could imagine. But he had. And he managed to carry on all year, every year.

Until it became Christmas Eve, and his wound was ripped open again, the hurt still as sharp and hard as it had been that day Ron had kissed him, sucked his bottom lip, stroked his hair one last time, then walked away. And the book laying on the table, inches away from him, was testament to that wound.

Now his son knew how it felt to be him, and perhaps this time, Albus would be the one to break a Weasley heart, and not the other way around. He hoped so.

Slowly, Harry got up and picked up the book, the leather butter-soft to the touch, and clutching it, Harry prowled the house until every little bit of mistletoe was crushed in his palm.

Harry opened the book to that page, the page smeared with tears, wrinkled with sweat and crumpled in anger, then smoothed, and pressed the mistletoe into it. He closed the book then and wrapped the leather band around the book tightly before walking over to the fireplace.

The flames were dying, and the book would burn slowly, but Harry didn't care – he had time.

center ~ * ~ /center

Christmas morning at the Potters was always hectic, the sounds of paper ripping, squeals of delight, dishes rattling and more filling the air … but in the last quiet moments before the cacophony, Albus padded downstairs to find his father asleep in front of the fireplace.

The new broom was standing in the corner, adorned with a huge red ribbon, and the tree was surrounded by presents large and small, but all Albus could see were the tear tracks still damp on his father's skin and the scattered leaves of mistletoe on the hearth.

Tonight, or maybe tomorrow, or definitely by the New Year, he would tell Hugo it was over. He would. But right now, he roused his father and used the fireplace tongs to tuck the remains of the book behind the new logs he slid in, hiding it from sight.

Hidden, where it should have stayed.

~ End~


End file.
